


Origins

by Cernunnos



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Child Death, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Past Child Abuse, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cernunnos/pseuds/Cernunnos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origin story of an AU version of Dok that I've RP'ed for years. Contains mentions of incestuous rape and prostitution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origins

He remembered vividly how it all started. It hadn't been long after Steffi's death, perhaps four or five months at the most. He'd only just passed his ninth year and was preparing to return to school again after an eighteen month absence. His mother had discarded the old dress out of frustration, unable to repair the holes that the moths had eaten into it without it looking akin to a patchwork quilt, but he had saved it; it had been his favorite and a childish part of him (for much of his childhood by that time had been spent caring for an ailing sister and was thus very little like a childhood at all) refused to see it go to waste.   
  
  
The moment that garment slipped over his head, something felt incredibly right and so he'd spent several hours in the privacy of the barn gazing at himself in a cracked mirror. The wool's vibrant green color had faded over the time his mother had kept it stored, but he could remember its emerald hue and he could pretend for a time that it was just as it had been when his father had given it to her. He would count the folds and touch them fondly, watching as they pooled at his feet and bunched around his shoulders. He'd once, rather clumsily, tried to mimic the sort of dance he'd seen his parents do once when his mother had worn the dress, but it was too long and he'd wound up falling flat on his face and nearly bending his glasses.   
  
  
It was during one of these playful ventures that his father had found him. He had been careful before, but had lost track of the sun and so was completely caught off guard when Josef entered the barn to call him to dinner. The silence had seemed to stretch out endlessly only to be broken by the doctor's rage. He had shouted at the boy, screamed that no son of his would be a Schwule and had ripped the dress off of him.   
  
  
Avondale had only ever been beaten once or twice before, and only with a belt when he'd been particularly difficult with his parents. The beating he'd received that evening was the worst he'd ever faced, and would not be the last. Josef had left him there, cowering naked in the barn under the threat that if he so much as moved from the spot, things would get much worse. The boy readily complied and stood trembling in tears until his father returned with the longest, thinnest switch he could cut.   
  
  
Memory became blurry after that, but later in life, Avondale would recall that it seemed to last for at least half an hour since his mother remarked that supper was cold by the time he staggered into the house behind his father. His back and buttocks bled openly for some time after he'd been deposited in his bedroom and it wasn't until much later, perhaps two or three hours when his mother came in to wash his wounds. During that entire time she spoke not a single word to him and while he had not expected much consolation, he had hoped for at least one of the gentle embraces he had grown used to recieving. None came, however, and he grew the distinct impression that she was only looking at him because she was forced to.   
  
  
That night, the Napier home grew cold.   
  
  
Avondale had avoided sneaking clothes after that, but by the time he'd reached his tenth year, he'd begun entertaining thoughts far more dangerous than that. Things had become complicated rather quickly when he met Emil. The older boy and his family had moved only about a quarter mile from the Napier's and though there was the then-significant age gap between them, almost three years, he and Avondale had become fast friends.   
  
  
The young boy had been frightened by his attraction to the bombastic brunette and when he spoke of it, things quickly turned downhill once again. Emil had told his parents whom told Avondale's parents...as well as half of the town: warning them against allowing their children to play with the reedy blonde. After all, he'd been marked once by the devil, they said; those malformed hands of his were proof enough that he'd been touched by something evil. Rumors surfaced quickly, not only about him, but of the sister he'd lost and of his sickly mother and of his father...especially of his father whom until then had been a man of outstanding repute.   
  
  
Josef would not stand for having his name run through the dirt. He would not stand to harbor an ungrateful Schwule under his roof and if he could not beat out the cause of his son's homosexuality...if he could not excorsise it through any means of the Church, then he would find another way to show the boy just how evil it was.   
  
  
That was the first time Avondale had been thrown over the saw-horse: the night he lost his virginity. He bled then too, but his mother neither came to tend to him, nor did she seem to care about what had happened. She did not question it when her son limped throughout the house and Avondale was not sure whether she was unaware or if she had simply turned impassive until, while being punished in the same way for touching himself not long after, he noted that she was standing by the barn door watching.   
  
  
It seemed that Josef would find any excuse to punish his son in such a way, and Avondale was aware that he should have hated him for it and should have hated his mother for knowing and choosing to do nothing, but there was little he could do. He loved his parents dearly and it ate at his very core that he should be such a disappointment to them. With all the enthusiasm a child could muster, he searched for a solution: anything that could make up for his intrinsic failures. If he studied hard, perhaps he could find a cure for himself; that should make his parents proud. Then he could help other boys like himself become normal.   
  
  
The Church created a problem, though. It condemned his ilk, even after some claimed to be cured, and so he found himself searching for other means. He was aware of demons; the Church made it clear that they existed, but he was a crafty child and it occurred to him that if demons caused such things, surely they might have the power to take them away. All he needed was a way to communicate with them without being susceptible to their power. It was then that he began his studies of the dark arts.   
  
  
Of course, he could not boast such a thing to his parents, could not tell them that he was learning black magic in an effort to cure himself and thus restore their honor, and so he took up an interest in his father's work. Josef seemed less irritable, sometimes even kind, when his son asked questions about human anatomy and disease. It had always been his intent to give his son a physician's education much like the one he had recieved, and if Avondale showed promise, then he would at least make that small effort for him.   
  
  
Avondale, however, did not show promise: he showed genius. The boy learned quickly and seemed hungry for the knowledge, and so despite his father's volatile temper, he would tag behind the man when he worked close to home. Josef was none the wiser that his child was using this information for dark purposes, and while he rarely showed any pride in his son, he did at least acknowledge when the boy showed an acute understanding of what he was being taught.   
  
  
Their relationship became further complicated. Avondale could not, no matter how many times he was punished, control his urges. Josef kept a constant eye on the boy: the way he looked at other boys, the way he would sneak off to touch himself and entertain vile fantasies, the way he would posture himself in a forthcoming way in the presence of other men... For each and every offense, he would throw his son over the saw-horse: it became routine until the punishment served to replace all others. If Avondale's grades dropped, if he broke a dish while washing them, if he bothered Josef while he was busy he would be taken to the barn and thoroughly punished.   
  
  
But while Josef saw this as punishment and punishment alone, he was blind to his own son's tenacity. Avondale readily offered himself up when he knew that he'd done wrong, would only put up mild protest when drug outside. While Josef would stand and belittle him as he undressed, while the doctor would force himself inside the young body hard enough to make him bleed, Avondale would remain undeniably aroused. For the first few years, he was only ever capable of dry heaves, but by the time he hit puberty, he soon found the true ecstasy in ejaculation. None of this, of course, could be expressed during the act, but he was coming to crave the attention more and more. It was an escape from beatings that had become frequent and others would not know if he later bore his back amongst company. It would be his secret...their secret.   
  
  
His search for a cure soon dwindled away to nothingness and new interest took hold. He learned to communicate with those creatures the Church called demons, but there were some far too beautiful and far too gentle to be called such. These creatures, these heathen gods and goddesses and their creations comforted him. They were powerful allies and soon the acquisition of knowledge became an acquisition of power...power that he deigned that he would one day hold over all others and prove that he was not a useless child.   
  
  
His father's words were sharp and harsh, often simply devolving into a mantra comprised of all the reasons why the boy was going to burn in Hell, and Avondale became convinced that the only reason he was kept was because of his academic promise. If that was his only use, then why had these creatures come to call him friend and master?   
  
The bitterness was slowly swallowing his heart and over the course of four years it soon no longer came down to the naive idea that he would make his parents proud again; so long as he lived, now, he was determined to drag his father's name through the mud if only to show the man his superiority. He would make Josef sorry for ever doubting him despite being allowed private education, food and shelter. If he really was some sort of demon’s spawn, then he would own that power and repay every wrong that had ever been committed upon his person.  
  
By age fourteen, Avondale had grown into an angry, rebellious boy. His notions of religion had devolved into what could only be described as heathen worship and his faith in the Church’s God, his parents, and humanity as a whole had been shattered. Still, he reveled in the closeness with his father if only for the physical pleasure it secretly brought him and the fuel it fed to his burning desire to see the man shamed.  
  
He had been all but expelled from his academy and so his father had taken it upon himself to send him away and keep him out from under foot. It was decided that the boy would continue his education in Potsdam, Brandenburg. The state was close enough to Berlin that, should he excel, Avondale might be awarded the chance to gain his post-secondary education there. The boy was eager to flee Hessen and, while a twisted part of him would miss it, Josef’s oppressive rule.   
  
The city was an entirely different place than his family’s farm and the town which he had called home for so long, but unlike many boys his age, he held no fear of it. Alone, he could do as he pleased, and he intended to do just that. The academy in which he’d been enrolled applied a rather liberal policy as to what the students were allowed to do on their own time and so Avondale often found himself wandering the streets in an effort to take in everything he could…including the company of other men.  
  
It had been during one such excursion that he found himself on a mostly-abandoned roadway save for a young woman pacing in an irritated fashion across the street. He kept his head downturned, stealing glances and once or twice meeting her angry gaze until she all but stormed over to him and with more force than a woman should ever possess, shoved him against the wall. Words were traded and the boy quickly realized that this was no woman at all, but an impersonator…a damn good one at that.   
  
The man seemed to be under the impression that this was his territory to work and did not appreciate any sort of competition, especially from some girly slip of a boy. After a trade of rather creative insults, however, the two came to the conclusion that it was far too cold to argue outside and so Avondale invited his would-be attacker to accompany him to the nearest beer hall with the promise that he would offer some form of monetary compensation for his previous offense. This seemed to please the older gentleman, and so with his newly acquired company, the young Aryan set off again.  
  
A few beers and several cigarettes later, Avondale had obtained quite a bit of information from his companion. The man’s name was Klaus, but he often went by the name Claudia when he worked. Klaus was an interesting young man of mixed Irish and German descent. At twenty-two, it seemed as though he had seen the world…or at least its seedier underbelly: something about which Avondale was acutely curious. Sex work was hard for women, but near impossible for men and apparently there were unmarked districts in which men such as they two were free to tread while others were far too dangerous between police and those who would simply assault or kill out of hate.  
  
The reedy blonde drank up everything the other man would offer and took particular interest in the way the other man postured himself as they spoke. If anyone had glanced at them, they might have simply mistaken Klaus for a woman. Impersonation intrigued the boy and he pressed the other man to teach him, offering him what spare money he had if only to buy a little more of his time. The other man would have none of it, however, claiming it too dangerous a profession for such a young boy with promise ahead of him to waste his time on; though, it remained unsaid that Klaus more than likely didn’t want the competition.  
  
Avondale would not be deterred. Every week, he would return to the same street and pester the man for hours with offers of money and sexual favors if only he would teach him what to do to make himself more marketable. It took him three months to force the Klaus to cave, and when the other man did, he took no money for it. Instead, he drug the boy back towards the slums and there amidst the drunkards and drug lords was a tiny brothel hidden well away from prying eyes.  
  
It was there that Avondale met the men he would come to call his extended family: his real family. Besides Klaus, there was Bertram: the youngest at twenty-one and the son of a mill-worker, Gregor: a former student who had regrettably become quite addicted to the vices of gambling and drinking so much so that he tended to live day to day, and Egon: the eldest and by far most eccentric of the group, often playing up his age and prematurely graying hair simply because he could. Between these men, he learned how to carry himself as a woman, how to dress as one, how to sew and alter his own clothes, and most importantly, how to protect himself.  
  
It had been Egon to note how hateful their new pupil was in the beginning, and had more than once commented that while he had learned bitterness in the home, it was now time to learn to love himself and those around him. At first, Avondale had been resentful of the other’s pointing out such a blatant character flaw, but there was no denying the man was right and it wasn’t as if Egon had been particularly nasty about it. In fact, the man was kinder and gentler than any of the others and once the boy had warmed up to him, he became the blonde’s favorite.  
  
On the weekends when Avondale would stay at the brothel, the older man would sit up with his pupil and drink and smoke late into the night all the while sharing stories of sordid affairs, outrageous scandals, and how he had at one time owned his own clock-shop. How much of it was true was questionable, but the blonde was willing to believe if only because it meant he could enjoy the other’s company and the physical attention it brought.  
  
Unlike the doctor, Egon refused to take the boy (though he would lie with him to sleep) and it had brought Avondale great frustration for the first few months. Josef had always told his son that he did such things under a pretense of love and it had become something ingrained in the young man over the years. To him, Egon’s refusal was a rejection of care and it did not sit well with him.  
  
Over the months, however, and with the others’ help, Egon was able to somewhat repair the damage that had been done; though, just as he’d made for a rather poor repairman of clocks, so too was he unable to do more than a shoddy, yet well-meaning mend of the boy’s psyche. It would not be until many years later after Avondale had left Potsdam, joined the military, and taken to consorting with his commanding officer, a man he had spent some small part of his remaining boyhood with at the academy, that those fissures would be smoothed over, and even then the scars would still be visible to those close enough to him to know.  
  
The scientist would never return to Hessen while his mother lived. In his eyes, she had done more damage than even his father and he would not give her the satisfaction of coming home to be greeted by false praise after all he had achieved. He was an officer of the S.S. and had done more for the Party and the country than any man could lay claim to save perhaps his commander’s cousin who had founded it in the first place; he had simultaneously brought his family name pride and undeniable shame by his gruesome experiments in the name of patriotism and it would be up to them to handle it on their own.  
  
When news of his father’s ailing reached him, however, Montana had urged him to go if only so that he could rub it in his old man’s face that he was no longer a Catholic and still a Schwule. Although he knew the younger man had suggested this in half-jest, Avondale had taken it to heart and once again found himself standing upon the soil he’d once called home.  
  
As weak as Josef had been with his failing liver and arthritis-riddled body he’d still had the strength to spit upon his son when the Aryan sat by his bedside. It occurred to the scientist as he stared down at the man who had once terrorized him what an incredibly sad sight he was. The powerful body he had marveled at in his youth was now shriveled and decrepit and the beard that had often scratched his back raw during those nights in the barn had withered and grown white. Everything he had once respected and feared was turning to dust before his very eyes and he found himself frightened for his own body, even as the old man cursed him. Would he become like this? Already he had passed his forty-fifth birthday and Josef himself was barely hanging onto his late eighties… But he had something Josef had never had: he had power and he intended to use it to his own advantage. He would not be like this; he would never be like this.  
  
Even as he parted, Josef continued to rail at him, swearing that as a sodomite, his son would burn in the depths of Hell for all eternity. At this, Avondale turned to favor the man with a smile and a promise that he would meet him there when the time came.  
  
Josef passed that night, and Avondale swore he would never return to Hessen again.


End file.
